


Visitations

by Kryss_LaBryn



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2019-07-02 15:30:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15799377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kryss_LaBryn/pseuds/Kryss_LaBryn
Summary: In the 1930s, a priest comforts an aging opera star. A star who married an angel...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this years ago, in 2009, so you may have seen it on my fanfiction.net account. Now you can read it here, too. :)

Despite the heavy scent of roses in the air, the breeze still carried a slight chill. Pastor Denis gathered his coat more tightly about him as he hurried down the street. He wished he could have afforded a taxi.

The streets were crowded with couples enjoying the spring air, despite the coolness. He dodged around customers frequenting the shops on Rue Edouard VII, following it to its termination in a small square of elegant buildings. Finding the correct address, he sighed. It was on the top floor, and there was no sign of an elevator. He wondered how the elderly occupant managed. Ah, well; he was young and in shape; if she could manage, so could he.

His knock was answered by a woman too well-dressed to be a maid. Her rather sharp gaze frankly appraised him; he suspected he was found wanting, but she invited him in regardless.

“You must be Pastor Denis,” she said, holding her hand for his coat; “I’m Sophia, La Christine’s daughter. She’s expecting you.”

She was rather too slender, making him wonder if she was eating properly, but her long blonde hair was beautiful. He expected she would show him in at once, but she paused. “My mother may make some rather odd claims,” she said at last, slowly, as if choosing her words with care. “Please don’t be surprised or offended. Pastor Neil once laughed in her face; she never forgave him.” She paused again, then said coldly. “I would not have her die without the comfort of a priest.”

“What sort of claims?” he asked, curious.

“Claims regarding my father,” and she would say no more, but turned and left.

He followed her down a wide hall to a cheerful sunlit room. A corner was taken up with a rather old-fashioned piano; several plants lent a welcome touch of summer. A comfortable-looking divan sat in the sun near a window; upon it, her legs covered with a bright quilt, reclined an elderly lady he could only assume was Madame Daaé.

She had to have been in her seventies, at least, but, fragile though she seemed, her gaze was clear and welcoming as she gracefully extended a hand to him. “Pastor Denis! Welcome! I’m so glad you could come. Please forgive me for not standing; I am afraid it’s very difficult for me, these days.”

He murmured politely, noticing Sophia quietly leave. Following his gaze, Mme Daaé laughed fondly. “She’s lovely, isn’t she? She has her father’s eyes. . . .”

“Mme Daaé,” he began, taking the chair she indicated, but she interrupted him.

“Oh, Monsieur; Mme Daaé was my mother. Please, call me Christine.”

“Very well, Christine—Did you not take your husband’s name?” Had she not married, he wondered in shocked disapproval?

“No; I had already begun my career when we married. Erik didn’t want my audience to lose track of me. Besides,” she leaned forward slightly, confidential, “He never did pick one!”

“One what?”

“A last name. You needn’t be concerned; it was all approved by the priest who signed the marriage papers. We were married in the Madeleine, did you know?” She sighed. “He wrote us the most beautiful wedding march. . . .”

“The priest did?” He was becoming more confused by the moment.

“No, silly; Erik did!”

“Who is Erik? Er, your husband?”

“Husband, tutor, friend, Angel . . . He was everything to me.” She sighed, suddenly wistful. “I haven’t heard his voice in years . . . I don’t quite know why. I wish I did.”

Her mind was obviously wandering, if she had forgotten her husband’s death, but she seemed harmless. He wondered if it was due to her age or her illness. “Madame—Christine, I gather you were a singer of some note?”

“Oh, yes! Have you never heard of La Christine?” At the honest shake of his head she laughed, somewhat sadly. “Ah, well; it was many years ago, and the opera is not as popular as it once was. These days, it’s all about the talking pictures, I suppose. Sophia,” she added, as her daughter re-entered, “Would you be so kind as to start the Victrola?”

Sophia set the tray of tea things she was carrying down by her mother and went to a corner near the piano. Denis noted with curiosity an old-fashioned gramophone, of the kind that played wax cylinders. Sophia quickly and expertly wound the handle and set the needle.

The sound was scratchy, and somewhat distant, but the clear young voice impressed him. “That is the famous Jewel Song from Faust,” said Christine, reaching for the teapot before Sophia could intervene. “That was the first starring role I had, you know. _Est-ce toi, Marguerite_ ,” she sang quietly along for a few bars. Her voice, elderly though it now was, was still recognizable as that issuing from the gramophone. It was lovely.

Sophia brought him a teacup, and retired again; Denis rather suspected she was hovering just outside. “You sang on the stage. At the Palais Garnier?”

“Yes, primarily. Of course, there were the usual tours, but the Opera Garnier has always been home. It’s why we live here. Much more convenient than a country home would have been!”

“But surely you don’t sing anymore?”

“Oh, no; not for years! Not professionally, anyways. Not since Erik . . . died. But it was in my dressing room that I first heard his voice; how could I move away?”

“You met him at the Opera?”

“In a manner of speaking.” She seemed amused. “It was in my dressing room that I first heard his voice, and, months later, that I finally met him face to face.”

“You . . . heard his voice, but he wasn’t there?” he asked slowly.

“Oh, no; of course he was there! I just couldn’t see him.”

“Ah! You were blind!” He had heard of that, temporary blindness caused by some illness or other. He wondered if she could still see clearly.

“Not at all! He simply chose to not manifest.”

“I . . . see.” He did not.

She paused, studying him with the same appraising gaze her daughter had used, before saying, quite clearly, “My husband was an angel, you see.”

“Ah. I see.” He was glad of the warning her daughter had given him; he still had to clench his jaw to keep his face carefully blank. Was she mad, he wondered? Or was it just the dementia of an aging mind? Behind him, the Victrola reached the end of its spiral and tracked an endless groove, winding down. She waited in silence.

“How—How do you mean, an angel?” he asked finally. “Do you mean, he was a good man, or . . .”

“He was the Angel of Music, sent from Heaven by my poor dead father to tutor me,” she replied, still gazing intently.

Lunacy. Sheer, utter lunacy! Surely she could not believe that a _real_ angel...! It was no wonder that her daughter had not wished her mother’s ravings to chase away another priest, especially now, when she was so obviously so near the end of her life. He was suddenly, gravely concerned for the state of her soul. “You had better tell me more,” he said finally.

She seemed slightly satisfied with his answer. At least he had not laughed in her face. He would have to thank Sophia for the warning.

“This was back in the ‘80s,” she began. “My father had died some two years before. You must understand, he had told me all about the Angel of Music, and how he sometimes visits good children to bless them with music. And he had promised to send him to me, once he was in Heaven.” She paused, her voice catching, but continued. “But it had been nearly two years, with no sign of the Angel. I was in despair.

“But suddenly, one day, after rehearsal, as I sat alone in my dressing room, I heard the most beautiful singing! Oh, you can’t imagine what it was to hear his voice. I’m so glad God didn’t take his voice, as well. . . .” Her eyes brightened, and her face softened; she looked almost young again at the memory. “I _wish_ he would come and talk to me once more. . . . In any case, I soon learned that the angelic voice was none other than the Angel of Music himself! Oh, I was so happy. . . .”

He hesitated to interrupt her strange tale, but could not stop himself from asking, “Could there not have been someone outside, in the hall?”

“I am not an idiot, monsieur! Of _course_ I rushed out to check; it was the first thing I did! But there was no one in the hall, nor in the rooms on either side; there was no one about at all! My dressing room was in a very lonely area, you see. And I could only hear the Voice in my room. . . . Oh, you can’t know; you never heard his voice! No one who ever heard it could ever mistake it for anything a mortal man could produce.” She must have sensed his disbelief, for she added, a bit sharply, “I was surrounded by the best voices of the day, Monsieur; I had already worked in the National Academy of Music for some time! I can assure you that I know voices, and this Voice was no ordinary one!”

“My apologies; of course you would know best,” he murmured, wishing to hear the rest of her curious tale. “Please continue!”

“Well,” she sat back, mollified, “The Angel tutored me for about six months before he finally announced that I was ready. You have to understand what a short time that is! I had had the potential, I am sure; but to be perfectly honest, at the time he first came to me I was just in the chorus, and only hanging on by the skin of my teeth. To go from that to the lead in _Faust_ in a mere six months was unheard of; it was a feat most didn’t accomplish in their entire lives!”

She paused to sip her tea. “He unveiled me at the gala supper given to bid the old managers farewell, and to welcome in the new ones. La Carlotta, the prima donna, had suddenly taken ill. Why they chose _me_ to sing in her place I have no idea; I can only assume it was the influence of my Angel. But they did, and I sang . . . To be honest, I really don’t remember much of that night. It was all a blur then, and that was a long time ago! I am told I was a success.” She smiled modestly.

“It was somewhere around then that I realized that I . . . loved the Voice. I know! I know! To dare to love an angel: is that not a sin? For how can we poor mortals separate our love of the spirit from our love of the flesh? I tried very hard to hide it, even from myself, but, of course, one can hide nothing from an angel.

“Then, the night of the chandelier disaster, I went—”

“Wait,” he interrupted, “What chandelier disaster?” He was beginning to fear for her sanity.

“When the great chandelier over the auditorium fell,” she replied. “It was in all the papers. Don’t you remember?”

“I’m afraid I had not yet been born,” he said apologetically, not wanting to impolitely remind her of her age. “In any case, I only came to Paris a few years ago.”

“Oh! Of course. I forget how long ago it was, sometimes. . . . You didn’t fight in the war, then? You were too young?”

“No, but that was less due to age. . . .”

“Oh?”

He swallowed uncomfortably, but said, “I had just entered the seminary, and they rather frowned upon their young men dropping out to go and kill. So I figured I could be the most use as an army chaplain, but then . . .” He shrugged. “The war ended before I made it to the Front. I never saw action.” He glanced aside, ashamed.

“That must have been very hard on you,” she murmured, sympathetic. “All the other young men going off to do their duty. . . . You must have felt a coward.”

“I did, rather.”

“It must have taken a great deal of courage to stay behind to learn to administer to men’s souls, instead of taking the easy path and simply killing. I am sure you have helped more men as a priest than you ever would have as a soldier.”

Her sympathy surprised him; her words absurdly comforted him. He wanted to understand this strange woman, so childish one moment, so wise the next. “Thank you. But how did you come to be married to an angel?”

She beckoned for his cup and poured more tea for them both. “Well, as I said, it was the night of the chandelier disaster. I was playing Siebel to La Carlotta’s Marguerite in _Faust_ —”

“You weren’t Marguerite?” he interrupted. “But I thought—”

“No; I did sing at the gala, but I had not been offered any more leading roles. I’m not sure why; my Angel assured me they would soon be forthcoming. And, indeed, when the auditorium had been repaired and the Opera reopened, I was given a new contract. La Carlotta never sang again.”

“Repaired? Was there much damage?”

“Have you never seen the chandelier in the auditorium?”

“Madame, I am embarrassed to admit I have never been inside the Paris Opera House!”

She _tsked_ playfully. “And you call yourself a Parisian! Well, it was a very large chandelier. It would be a struggle to fit it into this room. Luckily, only one poor woman was killed, but there were many others grievously wounded. You may well imagine the horror! We were all in shock already, because of the croaking—”

“The what?”

“The toad in La Carlotta’s throat! You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you? I must sound a right madwoman… Well, it was the middle of the Jewel Song—”

“The one you just played.”

“Yes. She was singing perfectly, as she always did, when suddenly—She croaked!”

“She died on stage?” He was horrified.

“No, no,” she laughed; “She _croaked!_ Like a toad! Oh, it was horrible; as much as we disliked one other, it was a terrible thing to see happen to a singer, especially one of her calibre! She tried to continue, but she just kept croaking. . . . And then the chandelier fell! Oh, the cries of the injured—It was horrible! I was so terrified—”

“It must have been an awful experience!” he said, sympathetic.

“Oh, I was less concerned for myself. I was safe on the stage; we had not been hurt. The chandelier hung well into the middle of the auditorium, you see. . . . But the Voice had promised that it would be at the performance; I was afraid my angel had been crushed!”

She laughed slightly. “As if an angel could have been hurt! But I wasn’t thinking straight. I rushed straightaway to my dressing room, where the Voice was to have met me after the performance, for I thought that, if it were unhurt, it would go straight there.” She paused, remembering.

“And was the Voice there?” he prompted finally.

“No,” she murmured softly, “The Voice was not there. Instead, there was a man. . . . You have to understand, my door was kept locked at all times, so I was not expecting anyone inside! To see a man standing there, inside the locked door, was a terrible shock! I opened my mouth to scream, but the man spoke. ‘Christine,’ he said, ‘It is I!’

“I recognized the voice of my angel! And he was a man!

“I was furious, and frightened. I thought I had been deceived by a mortal man, but he took my hands and gently led me to my little sofa. And he explained.”

 

* * *

 

“Christine,” he said, my hands trembling in his cold ones, “It is I! God has granted me a great gift, the greatest gift he can give an angel.

“ _He has made me flesh!”_

_I did not know what to think, so I bit my lip and looked away._

“ _I know,” he said apologetically, reading my thoughts, “I do not much look like an angel anymore, do I? That is my own fault, I am afraid. . . .”_

_At his words, and his following silence, I could not help but look back at him._

“ _You are wondering about my mask, are you not? About my hands. . . . I know they are cold now. Christine, dear Christine, if only you knew. . . .” His head, enfolded in soft black silk, bent so low to my hands that I thought he was going to kiss them. Instead, he simply murmured, “It is forbidden, for an angel to love a mortal. But I could not stop myself, however hard I might try! Christine, I love you. . . !” and he did press a kiss through the silk._

_He saw my confusion, wiped my tear away with his thumb. “I love you, Christine Daaé,” he whispered softly. “How could I not? And God, in his infinite mercy, has granted me a life with you._

“ _However, God, in his infinite wisdom, did not grant me a handsome form. If you love me in return, it must be because you love_ _ **me**_ _, not just the shell that I wear. Can you do that, Christine? Can you love_ _ **me**_ _, as I love you?”_

 

* * *

 

“And so you married an angel,” he said, wondering at her sanity.

“I did indeed,” she murmured.

He dearly wanted to ask her further questions, to examine her story from all angles and see if he could winkle out the truth, but Sophia chose that moment to reappear. “I’m very sorry, but it’s time for you to go,” she informed him brusquely. “My mother is not well; she tires easily.” She retrieved his empty cup from his unresisting hands, and stood stiffly, waiting, it seemed to shepherd him out.

He rose politely, but, “I would like to talk to your mother a while longer, Mademoiselle,” he said. “If I may have but a little—”

“Impossible,” she replied, unsmiling. “This way, if you please, Monsieur. . . .”

He ignored her outstretched arm and turned to Christine. “Perhaps another time, then, Madame?” he asked. “I would dearly love to hear more of your unique life!”

Christine smiled up at him, her eyes twinkling in her wan face. “I should like that very much,” she replied, giving him an elegant hand. He bowed over it obediently. “Perhaps, oh, say on Wednesday, in the afternoon?”

“I would be delighted, Christine,” he told her gravely, and finally followed Sophia back to the door, mentally rearranging his schedule.

“Do not believe everything my mother tells you,” said Sophia as she brought him his coat and hat. “She has always been a superstitious child, the daughter of peasants. She believes everything she hears; don’t you start making the same mistake.”

He was slightly startled to hear her speak so baldly of her scorn. “There is nothing wrong with coming from peasant stock,” he chided her gently. “Jesus himself was the son of the poorest peasants—”

“Jesus was not known for his lies,” she retorted sharply. She opened the door dismissively, and within moments he found himself in the hallway, staring at the closed door.

He tried to shake off his irritation at her abrupt manner, and scolded himself for the pride that expected a servant of God to be treated in a more courteous manner, and instead deliberately turned his thoughts to the strange tale he had heard. The _beginning_ of the tale, he corrected himself. He had no doubt that there was more to follow, although he couldn’t believe any further revelation could rival her assertion that she had married an actual, real angel!

Surely some agency was at work to deceive the poor woman, the poor, impressionable girl she had apparently been. Was it human, or—Of course, she might simply be delusional. Still, she did have a daughter; that spoke of a husband of _some_ sort! A daughter, he mused, with strange, golden eyes, unlike any he had ever seen before. _Her father’s eyes_ , he remembered. Was it, perhaps, possible after all. . . ? He hardly dared complete the thought. If a real angel had—If the daughter really was—The implications were too enormous.

And highly unlikely, he chivvied himself roughly. Far more likely it was that someone had taken advantage of a superstitious young girl; but for what purpose he could not say.

He desperately needed more information. He doubted very much he could approach any of his colleagues without further details; he would become a laughing-stock.

With a last look up the carved façade of the building to the window he imagined must belong to the diva’s flat, he hurried away down the street. Wednesday was only a few days away; if he hurried he might be able to fit a few hours of research in between his other duties.

  


	2. Chapter 2

Denis was exhausted by the time he reached the top of the stairs. He paused outside the door of the flat, trying to catch his breath. In a moment of profound uncharity, he wished that, if the building could not have been retrofitted with an elevator, La Christine could at least have had the courtesy to live on the ground floor.

The realization of his irritation made him chuckle to himself. Truth to tell, he could have climbed at a more moderate pace, but he was eager to meet again with the strange, child-like old woman, to hear more of her strange fancies.

He had not been able to research the matter as deeply as he would have liked; there were books he could not access without having to explain rather more than he wished to, at the moment. But everything he had been able to track down assured him that, had Sophia’s father had any underworldly origins, she would not have borne the presence of a servant of God with such equanimity. No, her father was quite human, of that he was sure.

Almost completely positive.

Still. . .

Sophia answered his knock, as before. She really was quite striking, he decided, with her pale hair and golden eyes, even with the little twist of distaste her mouth gave upon seeing him. He wondered if her blonde hair had come from her mother or her father. Her mother’s was almost pure white, now; it was impossible to tell what colour it had been.

Christine was once again reclined on the divan. Faint sounds of the city drifted through the open window, along with a fresh, sweet breeze.

He thought she looked rather more wan, more frail, than the last time he had seen her, recent though that was. However, she greeted him cheerfully, waving him into the same chair as Sophia once again returned with a tea tray.

“And how are you doing today?” he asked, as Sophia once again placed the tray onto the little table beside the divan.

“Oh, as well as can be expected,” Christine laughed, a little breathlessly, reaching for the teapot. She raised it to pour, but stopped, lips whitening as she held motionless for a long moment, teapot frozen in outstretched hands, until Sophia gently freed it from her grasp.

“Are you in much pain?” he asked gently.

She, relieved of the weight, nodded slightly, but then smiled beatifically. “It hurts; but it won’t be long! Soon I shall pass, as all mortal things must, and then I shall see _him_ again!” Sophia rolled her eyes behind her back, and turned away.

“You married him, didn’t you? Your angel?”

“Oh, yes; we had a beautiful wedding in the Madeleine church, very early one Friday morning. Fridays are the day for weddings in Sweden; did you know that? It was a very small wedding; our only witnesses were two old priests, but it was so beautiful! We sang our vows.” She sighed deeply. “If only you could have heard him sing! Ah, then Monsieur, you would have truly known what Heaven is!”

“Forgive me the impertinence,” he leaned forward slightly, the forgotten teacup held loosely in careless hands, “But what was it like? Being married to an angel, I mean. What was _he_ like?”

She laughed slightly. “Oh, much like any other marriage, I imagine,” she said. “He could be imperious, I suppose, but he also was very kind. He paid me endless small attentions. And, of course, he managed my career, and taught me. I tried my best to be a good wife and pupil.” She sighed, glancing out the window with a wistful look. “We went for walks together. . . .”

“And you never, ever saw his face?”

“No.”

“Not even . . . when . . .”

“When what?” She asked, eyes wide.

“When he, er. . . . Well, Sophia _is_ his daughter, isn’t she? Yet you never. . . ?” He flushed in embarrassment.

“No. Never. He came to me in darkness; I never so much as touched his face. Why would I?” she asked simply. “Why would I risk losing everything I had ever wanted, simply to satisfy my woman’s curiosity? I will see him soon enough, in his true form! What earthly flesh could ever compare to that?”

“Still. . . . Never?”

“Never. He forbade it: It was God’s will that I love him for himself. If ever I did break that covenant, he would be forced to leave me; he would return to Heaven, and I . . . I would be cast into Hell, for so directly disobeying God’s command. I would never see him again, in this life or the next. Nor my father, nor my mother, nor dear good Mamma Valerius. . . .”

“But did you never wonder?”

“Oh, of course I did, especially in the early years. But I remembered the story of the handsome prince, stolen away to marry a troll, because the lass he had chosen could not contain her curiosity and wanted to see into whom the Great White Bear changed each night. So, I kept my curiosity, and my fingers, to myself, and after only a few years the mask he wore had itself become his face, to me.”

“Never? Not once? Not even after he died?”

She drew herself erect, eyes glittering with anger. “I keep my promises, Monsieur! I swore, to the man who was my husband, to the Angel who tutored me, and to God himself that, as I hoped to be saved, I would never try to see the man beneath the mask. And I kept my promise, Monsieur; I kept my promise!”

He tried to apologize, but she waved him off. “I find I am rather wearied,” she said, pressing a thin hand, delicate and white, to her forehead. “Please, do excuse me, but I rather think that you should leave.”

He stood, and hesitated. “May I return?” he gently, humbly asked.

“If you must,” and she turned her head. He pretended to not notice the glitter of tears beneath the veil of her hair, and bade her adieu.

Sophia stopped him as he was donning his coat at the door. “He wasn’t an angel,” she hissed suddenly, quietly vehement. “He was just a man! _She_ didn’t look at his body, but _I_ did. He was just a man.” She turned away, her shoulders shaking slightly.

“What did he look like?” he couldn’t stop asking.

“Like a dead man,” she muttered, and with that cryptic remark, abandoned him. He let himself out.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Christine was confined to bed when he returned, a week later. He entered almost hesitantly, still ashamed of his prior prodding.

He thought at first that she was asleep, but her eyes opened slightly as he approached. He was shocked by her appearance; she had wasted away to little more than the drift of white hair across her pillow and the glimmer of blue beneath translucent eyelids. With surprising sadness, he realized that her days were numbered indeed. She was more than gravely ill; she was dying.

“My apologies,” he began, but she waved him away.

“It is I who should apologize, Monsieur,” she mumbled, her voice slurred. “I am used to justifying myself to ordinary people; I had not considered that a man of the cloth would not need my admonitions that I should heed God’s instructions! I am sorry.” She turned her face away.

“No; you were right; it is I who must apologize. You must understand that, man of the cloth though I may be, I have very little direct experience with angels!”

She made a small noise that might have been a laugh. “As do I, Monsieur! I knew Erik for a mere matter of months before he joined me as a mortal man.”

“How did he come by the name Erik?” he asked curiously, perching cautiously on the edge of the bed. “It doesn’t really fit with the rest of them, does it? Michael, Gabriel . . . Erik.”

She made the small noise again. “No, I suppose it doesn’t, does it? No, I never knew what his Heavenly name was; I only ever knew him as the Angel of Music. He told me that he chose the name Erik because he liked the sound of it. And because it was Swedish, like me.” She smiled slightly, her eyes drifting shut.

He thought that she had fallen asleep, but she murmured, “It’s been a long time since I have seen my husband, but I think I do not have much longer to wait!”

“How did he die? Was it very long ago?”

“It seems ages, sometimes. . . . Sophia was very young. She was only thirteen. It must be almost twenty years, now. . . . But it was a very peaceful death; he passed away in his sleep.” Her eyes opened again, and she regarded him with a shadow of amusement. “How were you _expecting_ the mortal shell of an angel to die, Monsieur?

“No, he died very quietly and naturally; I didn’t even wake. When we lay down together, for the last time, he was my living Angel; when I awoke in the morning, he was nothing but a cold and mortal shell. The—the last thing he said to me, as he turned out the light, was that he—he loved me.” Her face crumpled. “I still miss him so much! I talk to him all the time, of course, but I have never heard his voice since.” She paused, catching her breath. “I don’t truly know why. I always thought that, if his mortal form must eventually die, as all flesh must—I always thought that I’d hear his voice again. But I never have. Not even in my dressing room. . . .” She looked as forlorn as any lost child who suspected that she had been abandoned. “I don’t know why God wouldn’t allow him to keep talking to me. . . .” Her eyes pled for understanding.

“Well . . .” He paused, considered. “It may be,” he said gently, reaching to take her hand, “that God needed you to stand on your own, for a time. You have always had someone to look up to, to lean upon: your parents, the Valerius’s, your husband. Perhaps God simply feels that the time has come for you to rely on yourself.”

Her eyes shone; he knew he had made a good answer. “Yes! Yes, of course!” she said gladly, relief smoothing the lines of pain from her brow. “He has wanted me to finally grow up; I can see that now! Oh, truly you are as wise as you are kind, Monsieur.” She grimaced suddenly in pain.

As though it was a signal to summon Cerberus, Sophia appeared to hurriedly shoo Denis from the room. “Please,” she said; “I need to give her her morphine again. It’s been too long, but when she got your message she insisted on talking to you, whatever the cost—I have to go.”

She caught up with him as he was hunting in vain for his outerwear, the missing coat and hat in her hands. “Here,” she said, thrusting them at him.

“Madame—” He began, and hesitated, wanting to understand her disapproval, but unwilling to pry.

“ _Mademoiselle_ ,” she corrected, rather sharply.

“My apologies,” and he almost turned away again, to leave his question for another time, but her soft, bitter voice stopped him. “Mademoiselle; still _mademoiselle_ ; always _mademoiselle_! How many young men do you think want to be married to the daughter of a madwoman? Or a daughter with an _angel_ for a father?” She stopped suddenly, then murmured, almost too faintly to hear, “I was there too; I have _always_ been here for her to lean on! But for me . . . And there _is_ no Angel of Music!”

“Mademoiselle,” he began again, gently, “Why do you dislike me so much?”

She looked sideways at him, through a veil of hair that almost hid the glitter of tears in her eyes. “Because it’s all lies. All of it. Just lies to comfort the superstitious and the simple.”

“I’m sorry you think that,” he replied. “It must be a terrible thing, to walk through the world so alone, without even Our Lord to lean on.”

“Do you really believe that nonsense?” she asked. He glanced at her. Her tone was condescending, but faint hope flared at the back of her eyes.

“I don’t believe any of it is nonsense. You may not believe in God, but He believes in you, you know.”

“Not that,” she said dismissively; “What you told to Mother. About my father. About . . . why she doesn't hear him anymore.”

“God moves in mysterious ways,” he replies; “Anything is possible.”

“It is entirely possible that my father was just a hideously disfigured musical genius who preyed on my mother’s superstition and fear to win himself a wife who would have rejected him, had she known what he truly was,” she returned, but more wearily than angrily.

“It is possible that your father _was_ an angel, granted a mortal life with the woman he loved by a merciful God.”

She snorted. “Possible; but not likely.”

“It is also possible that he was a disfigured musical genius who took the only route he knew to be with the woman he loved.” She said nothing. “Were they happy together?” he asked softly.

“Deliriously,” she said derisively.

“Then what does it matter?”

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

The glowing dial of Pastor Denis’s bedside clock showed just past two as he wiped the sleep from his eyes. Barely pausing to throw on a dressing gown, he hurried to answer the frantic pounding at the door.

He didn’t recognize the woman fidgeting on his doorstep, but as soon as the door opened she asked, “Pastor Denis?”

“Yes; what’s wrong?”

“It’s Madame Christine,” she told him quickly; “You must come quickly. It’s—It’s time. I have a cab waiting.”

“I understand,” and he left her wringing her hands in his hall as he quickly dressed.

The streets were nearly empty at that time; the cab made good time. However, he guessed from the way the woman, the housekeeper, he gathered, was leaning forward in her seat, unconsciously urging the cabbie to greater speed, that time was short indeed. He left her to climb the stairs at her own pace, and dashed on ahead.

Sophia met him at the door almost before he knocked, murmuring only, “You’re in time,” as he followed her to the bedroom. Christine weakly extended her hand to him as Sophia came to stand near her head; he took it as gently as he could.

“Ah, Monsieur. . . .”

“I’m here, Christine,” he murmured. “Tell me what I can do. Are you . . . Are you in pain?”

He was afraid that she had once again foregone her morphine, to judge by her alertness, but she murmured “No. . . . No pain,” with a deep sigh.

Her breathing was slow, but steady, and, indeed, her face seemed younger than he had yet seen it, finally smoothed of all cares. He patted her hand, somewhat awkwardly, and murmured, “There is nothing to fear, Christine. God is with you; God loves you.”

“Not afraid,” she exhaled softly; “Happy. To see . . . my Angel.” She managed to turn her head to her daughter, standing, her face still, with tears streaming down her cheeks. “Don’t be sorry,” she whispered. “Don’t be . . . alone. It hurts too much . . . to grieve . . . alone. I know.” To Denis she added, “You’ll make sure, for me? Make sure . . . she isn’t . . . alone.”

“I promise.” He squeezed her hand.

“Thirsty. . . .”

Sophia wet her lips with a damp cloth. Christine gave a small murmur of thanks.

They stayed with her as her breathing slowed, each breath seeming to be her last, until, three or four of their own breaths later, she would breath once again. The housekeeper came in to replace an unnoticed guttering candle before once again closing the door, shutting the harsh electric light back into the hallway, into the realm of the living.

For hours they kept vigil, the only sound her slow, shallow breaths and the occasional rustle of a handkerchief, until, at last, Christine stirred.

She opened her eyes wide, seeing something beyond them both, and breathed, “At last . . !” Her breath hitched; she inhaled one last breath, and gave a long slow exhalation. Then she was still.

Denis could only look at her, barely seeing the dimming eyes, the slackened jaw. The frail form before him seemed empty, somehow, and too small to have ever contained something as vibrant as a living woman.

Gradually he became aware of the sound of Sophia’s soft sobbing. “You’d better be waiting for her, you bastard,” she muttered hoarsely; “You’d better be waiting for her!”

He gathered her into his arms; she buried her face against him for a long moment, before pulling away, abashed, to run a last tender stroke down her mother’s face, and close her eyes.

“Goodbye, Mother!” she whispered, and turned away.

He gently lowered the top of the crisp white sheet over her face, and knelt beside the bed, his head resting on his folded hands, his mind taking comfort in prayer.

“It’s late,” he said as he finally stood. Sophia nodded, still quietly weeping. “You should try to get some rest; you have a long day ahead of you.” He paused. “Would you like me to stay?”

She shook head. “No. . . . No, thank you. Marie will stay. Go home; get some rest.”

“Very well. I will make arrangements for the—for your mother, if you like.” Sophia nodded dumbly. Again he hesitated, but she said nothing more. “Very well. I’ll see you in the morning then.”

She made no reply; only slowly sat on the edge of the bed and groped blindly for a hand beneath the sheet.

He closed the door softly behind him.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

“These are my father’s ashes,” Sophia remarked quietly as she took the large urn from the mantelpiece. “See,” and she opened it, showing him. “Lots of room for mother, too.” He held the pot as she carefully added Christine’s ashes. Her eyes were still red from weeping, and would be for some time, he suspected, but even in the simple black dress she still wore from the service, Denis thought she had never looked lovelier.

Her grief had softened her, had dulled the prickles. Since that last, terrible night they had spent on watch together, she had treated him almost kindly, allowing him to help her with the arrangements, sitting beside him on the divan as they shared tea, even borrowing his handkerchief during the small service at the Madeleine, when hers became too waterlogged to be of any practical use. She seemed to be becoming almost fond of him. The thought warmed him.

“Come on, then,” she prodded, and took his proffered arm, the urn nestled snugly in the crook of her elbow.

The evening was warm and soft; they walked the few blocks to the Opera. “I still think we should have seen about holding it here,” he said, as they climbed the broad stone steps, but she smiled.

“No; she would have hated it. I told you, she was far too modest. She always gave my father all the credit for her success; she never would take any for herself.”

“Perhaps he deserved it. Would she have made it on her own, do you think?”

“Not the way she tells it,” and she went inside.

The manager met them in a small vestibule off his office, murmuring sympathies. He led them up several narrow back stairs, far from the public eye, until, at last, with the click of a final key in the lock of a small door, he led them out onto the roof.

“Take as long as you need,” he said solicitously, backing back through the doorway; “I’ll wait for you here.” They murmured thanks. “Don’t go too near the edge!” he called as they walked away.

The evening was perfect; all of Paris lay at their feet. Before them, the sun sank in a blaze of glory, in a sunset only Paris could hold. Behind, the first dim stars began to twinkle in the azure sky. The City of Lights twinkled to life in response.

Denis was surprised by the peace he felt, standing so high above the city, feeling the breeze in his hair, as Sophia traced loving fingers over the brass contours of the urn. “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked.

“It’s what they both wanted,” she murmured, almost absently, her face lit by a golden gleam of sunlight shining from the urn. “Goodbye, Mother; goodbye, Father,” she said, pressing a soft kiss to the side.

“Goodbye,” he said, remembering Christine, and Sophia opened the lid and slowly poured a thin stream of ash into the breeze.

They watched the thin grey cloud dissipate as it wafted out across the city. She replaced the lid almost absently, and placed the urn near her feet.

“It was a good turnout, don’t you think?” she asked, resting her head against his arm as she watched the drifting clouds. He murmured agreement. He had been surprised at the mourners who had turned out to pay their last respects: it had been a small, but illustrious crowd.

“I’m glad they’re finally together again, wherever they are,” he said at last.

“Yes,” she replied quietly. She said nothing for a long time, as the night settled around them, then asked, in a small, hesitant voice, “You’ll keep your promise to Mother? You won’t . . . leave me.”

“I promise,” he said softly, and he wrapped a gentle arm around her shoulders as they turned at last, leaving the night and the stars to the angels.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tale Christine speaks of is an old Scandinavian fairy tale, ‘East of the Sun; West of the Moon’.


End file.
